


Cinderella, she seems so easy

by MistressKat



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ordinary People, BDSM, Bandom - Freeform, Community: sosodirty, Crossdressing, First Time, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-25
Updated: 2010-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The first time is a complete accident. Then again, a lot of good things in Mikey's life have begun that way – accidentally – so who's he to knock it?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Cinderella, she seems so easy

**Author's Note:**

> So there's [this manip](http://i112.photobucket.com/albums/n163/kat_lair/My%20Chemical%20Romance/mikey_way_wearing_alicias_dress_lol.jpg). There is, however, no salvation for me. *resigned sigh* This is largely [pushkin666](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pushkin666)'s fault. She encourages all my depraved ideas without conscience, remorse or any compassion for the audience I'm about to inflict this fic on. My kind of girl, really. The story was finished, albeit very, very late, as a part of the awesome [sosodirty](http://community.livejournal.com/sosodirty/) challenge. Stellar betas by [trialia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/trialia) (Tequila! Making lesbians enjoy waycest since 2008!) and[ [bloodrebel333](http://bloodrebel333.livejournal.com/), thank you so much ladies. Title comes from Desolation Row by Bob Dylan/MCR (why yes, I am quite this lame).
> 
> **DVD Commentary:** There is now a 'DVD commentary' available for a particular scene from this story. [Find it here.](http://kat-lair.livejournal.com/198147.html)

The first time is a complete accident. Then again, a lot of good things in Mikey’s life have begun that way – accidentally – so who’s he to knock it?

Mikey is shopping in a hurry, which he doesn’t like. Oh, he likes shopping and doesn’t have any particular hatred toward being in a hurry (because sometimes you just need to get to places quickly and it’s a fact of life), but the two together are not a good combination.

Well, not usually.

The thing is, Mikey is late for a date (not a serious one, but you know, he doesn’t like being late) and then he spills coffee all over his shirt exactly half-way between their house and the bar where he’s supposed to meet the girl and it’s just easier to swing by the mall and buy a new shirt than it is to turn the car around and go back home.

So he walks into the first likely looking store, grabs a short-sleeved button down with funky stripes and throws money at the cashier.

It’s not until he goes to the men’s room to change that he realises that despite being his size (he checked the label) the shirt is unaccountably tight. And a little on the short side. And there appear to be tiny rainbow coloured love hearts scattered around the black and grey stripes (although, okay, the hearts are sort of awesome) and the sleeves are turned up with neat button flaps, leaving a lot more arm exposed than he’s used to showing.

Mikey regards himself in the mirror, ineffectually trying to tug the hem down to cover his hipbones. There’s about an inch of bare flesh between the shirt and low-riding waist of his jeans.

It’s pretty obvious that he’s wearing a girl’s shirt.

Mikey blinks a couple of times before shrugging and walking out of the restroom. He’s never been particularly concerned about the traditional gender roles (though he’s never felt the urge to deliberately defy them either, unlike some other people he could name) and doesn’t see the need to start now.

His date likes the shirt. She likes it even better when they get maybe a little tipsy and she pushes him down on to the chair and straddles him, painting his mouth a delicate candy pink with her lipstick.

Hours later, when Mikey gets home, it’s still there, smeared and tasting faintly of spun sugar.

He unlocks the door carefully in case Gerard is asleep (unlikely but Mikey lives in hope that one of these days his brother manages to get a full night’s sleep) and drops his keys onto the small table.

There’s a flicker of TV coming from the living room. Mikey sighs, heading over to say _hello _and _good night_ and _you should go to bed_ and _have __you eaten?_

Gerard is stretched on the sofa, hair falling over his face in messy clumps. The fairy lights draped over the bookcase make everything glow faintly, Gerard’s eyelashes casting long shadows across his cheekbones. He looks tired. Mikey stands in the doorway for a long time, cataloguing the slope of shoulders, the careless abandon of limbs at rest, the familiar shape of Gerard’s mouth and the soft curve of jawline, and god _god_, he _wants_.

There and gone. The feeling is an old enemy that Mikey suppresses with practiced ease, shoving its raw sharp edges to the back of his mind where all of his what-ifs live like bats in a cave.

He raps his knuckles against the wall, stepping into the room. Gerard will see the smile Mikey is thinking about even if it never reaches his face.

“Hey,” he says. “You’re up late. Again.”

Gerard tips his head back over the armrest, regarding Mikey upside down. “Yeah well. I could say the same about—” His eyes widen comically, lips moving around words that don’t quite make it out. “Uh.”

Mikey watches with alarm as Gerard tries to roll off and sit up at the same time, flailing impressively until he manages to stand up.

“Is that?” Gerard asks. “Are you?” His eyes are travelling up and down Mikey’s torso, coming to rest somewhere between the hollow of his throat and the sticky pink of his lips.

“Oh,” Mikey rubs at his mouth a little self-consciously, but doesn’t really see what the big deal is. Gerard thinks gender dichotomy is a dirty word and wears a red feather boa to the corner shop when he feels like it.  “Needed a new shirt,” he shrugs. “Guess I picked the wrong pile.”

Gerard takes a step closer, though he doesn’t seem aware of doing so. His gaze is now burning a hole into the line of exposed skin under Mikey’s belly button. Mikey has a strange urge to cover himself up, the peaks of hipbone visible above his belt suddenly feeling naked and fragile. His hands travel downwards without his permission, hovering around his middle, nervously playing with the buttons of his shirt. “Gee?” he asks. “What’s—?”

“_Fuck_,” Gerard breathes, and stalks out without another word.

“—the matter?” Mikey finishes, staring after his brother. There’s no answer and he’s left alone, standing in the middle of an empty room, wearing a girl’s shirt and too much lipstick.

  
***

  
Mikey can’t stop thinking about it.

He lies in his messy double bed at night, spread-eagled on top of the covers, turning things over in his head. The August heat is almost unbearable, hammering the brick houses and litter-strewn alleys mercilessly. It’s a disquietingly physical sensation, like hundreds of hands all over his sweat-slick skin, pushing him down onto the sheets until moving and breathing become something he has to struggle for.

Everyone thinks it’s Gerard who’s the more eccentric one of the two of them; with his ink-stained fingers and elaborate stories about vampires and open suspicion of strangers. But inside where it counts, it’s Mikey who’s the real freak. He knows, has _always _known, that what he feels for his brother is not normal, that it’s sick and wrong and capable of breaking them both beyond repair.

So Mikey has let it go, done the right thing and buried all of it; all that _want _which had seemed almost bigger than Mikey himself but which he learned to hide anyway.

And now this.

With a groan Mikey turns over, resting his forehead against the damp pillow. In his mind the scene from three nights ago plays again and again; the look on Gerard’s face, a mix of surprise and something else, something more complicated; his eyes, dark in the dim lights and raking over him like splintered nails; the sudden tension in the room.

Mike shudders, pressing his hips deeper into the mattress. He remembers too the way he’d reacted; swaying to the touch that hadn’t even been made, fingers already sliding over his own flesh, undecided between covering it up or revealing it further and all it would’ve needed was one word from Gerard and he’d—

_Fuck_.

He’s half hard and aching and stupid, god _so stupid_, because it’s not what it looks like, it can’t be. It _can’t_, and Mikey’s made his peace with that a long time ago.

_But what if it is_, a traitorous voice at the back of his head asks. _What if, what if, what if?_

_Shut up!_ Mikey tells it, breaths coming shallow and ragged, his hips rocking against the bed. He can’t lie to himself. If Gerard… If he…

Mikey will take it; everything Gerard is willing to give. He’ll take it and he won’t even try to say no.

There’s something like a plan, except less formalised, floating under the surface of his consciousness; vague notions of pushing things a little just to see, hazy thoughts of tight girl blouses and make-up and having Gerard’s eyes on him again, hot and wanting.

Mikey moves his hips faster, his shoulder blades drawn tight, cock dragging over the dirty sheets. He comes like that, without even touching himself; an image of fishnets and high heels and Gerard’s hand on the inside of his thigh throbbing in time to his release.

  
***

  
So, _the second time_ is the second time only by default. Anything else would mean Mikey is counting.

Mikey is _not _counting. Mikey is simply… experimenting.

Or he would be if there was any conceivable opportunity to do so.

Gerard has done an admirable job of avoiding Mikey over the last few days, especially considering that that neither of them have left the house except for work (Mikey) and band practice (Gerard). Besides, it’s not like Mikey can just pull on something tight and revealing for breakfast or slobbing in front of the TV. He needs an _excuse_.

Ironically, it’s Gerard who finally provides it.

On Friday, Mikey ambles into the kitchen to find Gerard sitting at the table, sloppily spooning cereal into his mouth. He looks like he’s just woken up. It’s half past four in the afternoon so he probably has.

“Hey,” Mikey says, getting a bowl from the cupboard and pulling up a chair. He helps himself to dinner, pouring milk over the cereal and watching it turn chocolaty.

Gerard smiles in response, mouth still full. He’s meeting Mikey’s eyes for the first time in a while and Mikey feels himself relax, slumping slightly in relief.

They talk idly over their food, exchanging meaningless gossip. Gerard tells about Ray’s new guitar and how he almost ripped apart some asshole kid who had dared to touch it. Mikey recounts the latest episode of Pete’s epic, but seemingly doomed, attempt to woo Patrick over at the neighbouring record store. This time included a dubious use of helium balloons and ended up with the entire office gathering outside to point and laugh. Everyone at the local indie label Mikey worked for was hinged one way or the other, Pete just happened to be the most open about it.

Finally Gerard gathers his dishes, dumping them in the sink. “So, um,” he says, turning to face Mikey. “We got a gig tonight. At the _Unmarked Place_. You wanna come?”

Gerard has this band. They’re… not bad, and at least it gives him an excuse to get out of the house a couple nights a week. Gerard had of course asked Mikey to join them, but Mikey liked his job. He was comfortable behind the scenes and had no desire to be on stage being stared at.

He’d also told Gerard that it would do them some good to at least _try _to lead separate lives; living together already meant they were in each other’s pockets more than most brothers. Gerard had looked a little crestfallen about that, murmuring that he _didn’t mind_ and it _hadn’t been a problem before_. Mikey had pretended not to hear and remained firm even though it was almost impossible for him to refuse Gerard anything he asked for.

There was another reason Mikey had thought joining Gerard’s band was a bad idea but seeming as it revolved around how seeing his brother scream and strut and seduce the goddamn stage at regular intervals might be too much for Mikey’s self-control, he hadn’t exactly shared that with Gerard.

“…just a small time thing, dunno how many people there’ll be and you don’t have to, just thought I’d…” Gerard is still talking when Mikey refocuses to the conversation at hand. He seems to have progressed to full-scale flailing, standing awkwardly at the doorframe and looking vaguely embarrassed.

“No, I…” Mikey clears his throat and tells himself that there is nothing unusual going on here. “Sure,” he says with forced casualness. “I’ll be there.” His insides feel like they’re full of burning stones. It’s difficult to breathe normally.

“Great!” Gerard beams at him. “See you later then.”

He bangs out of the house with a tiny backward wave. Mikey waits a full minute until he’s sure Gerard is gone.

Then he goes to his room and upends his entire wardrobe onto the bed.

  
***

  
Apart for his recent purchase, Mikey does not own women’s clothes, because Mikey is not, in fact, a woman.

Then again, the point is not to look like a woman (Mikey very much doubts Gerard would do anything except laugh himself sick if he showed up in a wig and fake boobs). The point is…

_Well._

Mikey drops onto his bed, scattering clothes everywhere. He’s not quite sure what it had been about his outfit the other night that had made Gerard’s eyes darken, had unexpectedly broken through the walls Mikey hadn’t even known were there.

He grabs the shirt from the floor, runs the material through his hands. It feels like an ordinary shirt; looks like one too. In the end he shrugs out of his tee and puts the button-down back on, standing in front of the mirror and regarding himself critically.

Everything is a little too long and narrow to be considered attractive: his face, his legs, even his tangled hair, flopping gracelessly over his forehead. The shirt does him no huge favours, accentuating his skinny torso and arms. His collarbones peek sharply through the thin material, a stripe of white stomach framed by bone and belt.

The shirt makes him seem… vulnerable. Unsure. Like he doesn’t quite fit in his own skin.

Mikey cocks his head contemplatively. He fits his thumb in the soft indentation of bellybutton, letting the rest of his hand dangle down, fingertips brushing the worn denim. He closes his eyes, trying to recapture the feeling of that night; the sleepy tiredness in his limbs, the sudden heat of Gerard’s gaze on his skin, how shaky it had left him.

When Mikey opens his eyes again, he can barely recognise the person in the mirror. He looks desperate and frayed around the edges, all his good intentions unravelling like careless knots. His pupils are blown wide and black, there’s blood on his mouth where he’s bitten through his lip without realising it.

Mikey stares at his reflection for a long time, the taste of copper sitting bright and heavy on his tongue.

In the end he just grabs his keys and wallet from the dresser and walks out of the house.

After all, it’s less about _what _he’s wearing than _how _he’s wearing it.

  
***

  
The _Unmarked Place_ is a club that lives up to its name; the entrance is hidden behind a Chinese takeaway, the only indication that anything of interest at all is going on is the small but elaborately decorated poster announcing tonight’s line-up. 

Mikey pushes through the scattered group of kids hanging outside the door, exchanging a greeting here and there. His job makes sure that despite not being particularly active on the scene for a couple of years, he still gets waved in for free at most venues in Jersey.

Inside the air is thick with sweat and alcohol. Mikey’s outfit is relatively tame compared to the others in the club; a girl’s shirt with a subtle heart pattern actually helps him blend in with the crowd, which is good enough for now.

Mikey doesn’t care whether anyone else looks at him twice tonight. Gerard will recognise the shirt, he’s sure, and then… Well, then they’ll see.

The first two bands are unremarkable, punk rock by numbers, and Mikey hangs back, leaning on the bar. There’s a short break before _Chemical Emergency_ take the stage and Mikey sips his water, watching Bob and Ray set up their instruments while Frank does something indecent with his bass. There’s no sign of Gerard yet, but that’s not unusual. Mikey’s been to enough of their shows to know that his brother prefers to spend the minutes leading up to it biting his nails and furiously chain-smoking cigarette after cigarette.

Tell the truth, Mikey could use one himself right about now.

Finally Gerard walks to the stage; a scruffy awkward dude in front of the lonely microphone stand who seems for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else. He doesn’t raise his head or look at the audience.

Then Bob hits his sticks together in a fast _one-two-three_ and the band crashes into the first song like an avalanche. Gerard thrusts his fist into the air, eyes black and burning, voice ripping everyone apart.

Mikey lets himself stare for three whole songs. He can see Gerard searching the crowd, clearly looking for him, but Mikey is too far back to be seen, hidden by the glare of lights. There is still time to leave unnoticed, to forget about his stupid dangerous non-plan, but even as Mikey tells himself this, he knows he won’t be going anywhere.

As the band launches into their fourth number, Mikey pushes off the bar, making his way to the front of the stage. Step by step, he can feel his body fall further into the familiar rhythm of want and seduction and _c’mon, I dare you_. His stride becomes loose and relaxed, centre of balance shifting down to his hips and now he’s almost dancing, letting the crowd carry him onward.

The press of people is intoxicating, everyone screaming and swaying to the music. Mikey goes with it, grinding against the nearest warm body, head thrown back and mouth shamelessly open.

It doesn’t take long until he’s spotted. Frank gives him a cheerful middle finger in greeting, Ray and Bob too focussed on their playing for anything except a brief nod and raised eyebrows, respectively.

Mikey knows the exact moment Gerard sees him, his gaze following the line of Frank’s extended arm and landing on Mikey with an almost physical weight. His eyes grow wide and then narrow in recognition as he takes in what Mikey is wearing. There’s a half a second when Mikey actually thinks Gerard is going to miss a line but he spits out the end of the verse like it’s something foul and soul-stealing.

Mikey feels hot and feverish all over but he _has to know, has to know_ so he keeps his eyes on Gerard even though everything in him wants to look down in apology. But he’s done nothing wrong, nothing that couldn’t be explained away, not _yet_, and if Gerard doesn’t—

_There_. A deliberate once-over, Gerard’s eyes travelling up and down his body, lingering on hips and neck just like that night and fuck _fuck_, the look he’s giving Mikey is neither brotherly nor particularly friendly. 

Their eyes meet for a split second when they both stop moving and breathing, but then Gerard wrenches his gaze away with a visible effort, stalking to the other end of the stage.

The rest of the concert is a confused mix of _oh god, he wants me too_ and _what the fuck did I just do_.

Gerard takes out his — Mikey doesn’t even know; anger, frustration? — on everything and everyone else, while Mikey stands to the side and watches his brother do his very best to bring a crowd of scene kids to the brink of an orgasm.

Gerard plasters himself all over Ray’s back for the chorus, goes to his knees in front of Bob’s drum kit, crowds Frank until he pushes Gerard to the floor with a feral grin on his face. It’s clear that while his band has no idea what is going on, they’re happy to just roll with it.

Gerard prowls across the stage like he plans on having sex with it, leaning into the sea of reaching hands while he screams about love in a voice on the edge of breaking. He sings like he’ll die if he doesn’t, every other word stretching into a filthy moan; runs his hands over his own body, slow and obscene.

Not once does he look at Mikey.

  
***

  
Mikey gets home with no recollection how. The car keys are cutting a serrated line into his palm, so he must have driven, but he can’t remember it. His mind is full of Gerard’s voice, Gerard’s mouth stretched over the microphone, Gerard’s hands travelling down his body, white against the black material of his clothes.

Mikey makes it inside the front door before he pushes his jeans down, wrapping a sweaty hand around his cock. He stuffs his other wrist between his teeth, bites down hard to stop himself from screaming. Inside his eyelids Gerard is walking towards him, his fingers curling into Mikey’s shirt, pulling him closer as he wipes a thumb over Mikey’s mouth, smearing waxy red lipstick everywhere and—

Inside Mikey’s mind Gerard is smiling, wild and dangerous like he did barely an hour ago on the stage. “_Pretty_,” he says. “_Aren’t you a pretty little girl?_” And Mikey curls over himself, his fist a blur between his legs, his bare ass pressed against the door, and _yes, yes_, he is, for Gerard, _god_.

Afterwards, Mikey kneels in the shower, letting the hot water pound his back raw.

He leans on his forearms, absently soothing his tongue over the bite marks on his wrist. His skin tastes salty, like relief and fear and anticipation all rolled up in one.

He doesn’t get out of the shower until he hears the front door slam, announcing Gerard’s return.

  
***

  
The next day Mikey digs out his makeup and old clothes, everything he used to wear back when the clubs meant more than the music, when everything he was could be summed up in black eyeliner and tight jeans.

He’s more than that now, knows it with bone-deep certainty, which is probably why donning the costume of his former self would be easy.

He doesn’t though. Instead Mikey stuffs everything inside large bin bags, dumping them at the curb on his way out.

It’s time the outfit is defined by him wearing it and not the other way around.

So Mikey goes shopping. He buys makeup: heavy kohl and mascara and lipsticks in different colours; pale pink and faded red of old roses and dirty rust of blood. He buys clothes: tees and delicate button-downs, girl-jeans and girl-belts and a velvet choker. Finally, breathless and turned on, he buys a dress, short-sleeved and almost severe with its faint pin-stripes. He doesn’t quite believe he’ll ever wear it, but just knowing that he _could_ makes his hands shake as he hands over his credit card at the till.

It’s raining when he walks out of the shop. Mikey stands in the middle of the street and tilts his head up, letting the water sluice down his face, autumn trickling inside his collar in cold droplets.  
_  
Third time’s the charm_, he thinks. _Third time’s the charm_.

  
***

  
The third time is not the charm.

The third time is awkward and disappointing and leaves Mikey feeling like shit.

Mikey waits until Wednesday night. Then he puts on his new clothes (soft grey pants, white belt, powder blue t-shirt with _ask me, I might_ written on the front) and goes downstairs, his hair sleeked back, makeup subtle but there.

He stays in the kitchen until he hears the car, Gerard coming back from band practice, times it so that they collide at the door.

Gerard startles, steadying Mikey on instinct, hands around his arms as they stumble and shift. Mikey leans in, clumsy on purpose, his own hands grabbing at the worn denim of Gerard’s jacket. For a precious instant they’re pressed together from chest to knee and Mikey lets himself be supported, lingers in a way that should be obvious.

Then Gerard seems to remember himself and backs away, dropping his hands like he’s been burnt. Mikey loses his balance for real this time and trips over the threshold into the hall, catching himself on the edge of the mirror before actually smashing right through it.

For five seconds the silence is absolute, broken only by their laboured breathing. Then they both straighten up at the same time, apologising over each other.

“Shit, Mikey. Didn’t see you—”

“I’m sorry, wasn’t watching where—”

“—so I just, you know.” Gerard makes a vague hand gesture toward the fridge, not meeting Mikey’s eyes or any part of him really.

Mikey takes a hesitant step toward his brother but Gerard actually _flinches_, shoulders hunching inward like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible.

“Catch you later then,” he says, turning the corner and disappearing from view.

Mikey is left standing in the hallway with little choice except to follow his cover story that he didn’t even need in the end. He grabs his keys from the table, heading out into the night.

Gerard’s face, etched with shame and misery, haunts him all the way to the club, the knowledge that he put it there eating his insides.

  
***

  
A week later Mikey has pushed through the guilt into frustrated anger. Doesn’t Gerard _get it?_ How can he still think he’s alone in this? Mikey had thought that what happened at the gig was acknowledgement enough and if not, then surely what he’s wearing should be.

The outfits aren’t exactly subtle. Mikey’s putting himself on display in a way that goes beyond the clothes; practically throwing himself at Gerard. Every evening he comes downstairs, wrapped in soft clinging shirts and tight jeans. He exchanges meaningless small talk with his brother, lingering as long as he can, lounging on the doorway and waiting and waiting and waiting for something to happen, for Gerard to make a move.

He never does. And so Mikey is forced to either disappear into the night or slink back upstairs and, despite everything, his pride still prefers sitting in overnight cafe to sitting alone in his room.

So he leaves, Gerard waving him off with a smile that’s so obviously forced it makes something crack and break inside Mikey’s chest. It’s almost like Gerard has already had what he wanted and then had it taken away.

Mikey doesn’t get it. It’s not as if Gerard doesn’t _like _the clothes. Mikey _knows _he does, can feel Gerard’s eyes on him like a physical weight, night after night.

Yet nothing happens and Mikey doesn’t know what else he can do to change that, what he did that made Gerard back off from the cliff side they were both teetering on.

The situation is wearing him down. Mikey is tired and more than that he _misses _his brother. Work and other things keep them separated during the days and the evenings are spent in an awkward dance that never moves forward.

Tonight he stares into the bathroom mirror, his fingers frozen in mid-air still holding on to a mascara brush. He doesn’t want to go out tonight, doesn’t want to see the mute disappointment on his brother’s face. What he wants is to sit in front of the TV and eat something sweet and unhealthy while Gerard keeps up a running commentary about whatever crappy B-horror they are watching.

_Fuck it_, he thinks and tosses the mascara into the sink where it clatters and rolls around. He’s not going anywhere tonight.

Mikey wanders downstairs, grabs a packet of cookies from the kitchen before heading to the living room.

“Move over,” he says, kicking Gerard’s feet off the coffee table and slumping onto the sofa next to him.

Gerard blinks at him in confusion. “You’re not going out?”

“No, don’t feel like it,” Mikey says. “Thought we could watch a movie?”

Gerard reaches automatically for the DVD remote. He presses play without looking and the TV-screen flickers blue and red like an accident scene.

“But you’re all...” Gerard waves a hand at him, presumably to indicate Mikey’s outfit.

Mikey glances down at himself instinctively even though he knows full well how he looks, dressed in a tunic long enough to classify as a dress if not for the tight jeans Mikey is wearing under it.

“This?” Mikey asks. “I’m not... It’s not for other people, Gerard. Is that what you thought? That I’m wearing these because I want to impress some strangers?”

Gerard looks down. “Maybe,” he mutters.

“Huh.” Everything makes sense now; the dejected, slightly disapproving look on Gerard’s face, the careful distance he’s built between them.

“That’s now why,” Mikey says. “I’m wearing this...” _For you_ he wants to say, but despite everything the words don’t quite make it out of his mouth. “...for myself. Because _I_ want to,” he finishes instead and as soon as he hears himself say it he knows it’s the truth, even if not the whole one.

Gerard doesn’t say anything, but his smile spreads slowly and lingers for a long time.

A few hours later they’re both stretched comfortably on the sofa, surrounded by cookie crumbs, the muted credits rolling across the screen.

“Oh hey, meant to tell you.” Gerard says sleepily.

“What?” Mikey’s eyes are drooping but he doesn’t want to move. Gerard is a warm weight against his side, effectively trapping him against the cushions.

“Frank’s having a birthday party on Friday. Fancy dress since it’s Halloween.”

“Who’s going?” Mikey asks, though he knows the answer as soon as the question leaves his mouth.

Gerard laughs, obviously thinking the same thing. “It’s _Frank_,” he says, tilting his head back to grin at Mikey. “_Everyone’s_ going.”

  
***

  
Logically, Mikey knows that the person in the mirror is himself. That doesn’t stop him reaching out, fingers pressed against the smooth glass, tracing the outline of his bare arm, the deep burgundy red of his mouth.

He’s wearing the dress. The black, pinstriped one he bought in a moment of daring and then buried at the back of the closet. It’s short, clinging to his hips in a way that makes him shiver at every step. The cut gives a suggestion of breasts where there are none, the demurely high neckline somehow calling only _more _attention to how slutty the dress actually is.

It doesn’t stop there. A velvet choker circles his neck; tight enough to restrict breathing if only slightly, wide enough to look like a collar. His legs are encased in thigh-high boots, slick black vinyl over fishnet stockings that disappear under the hemline. Out of sight, but brushing against his skin every time he moves, the garter belt hangs low, attached to a pair of silk panties.

Mikey wants to touch himself through them but daren’t. Just putting the underwear on had had him biting back a moan and if he starts now Mikey doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop.

He wrenches his gaze up. Meeting his own eyes is an effort, but behind the make-up, behind the haze of need and trepidation, it’s still _him _looking back, no one else. Knowing that somehow makes everything a little bit easier to handle.

Mikey takes a deep breath and walks downstairs, heels loud against the hall floor. He finds Gerard in the kitchen, back turned, rummaging through the drawers.

He really doesn’t look any different from his usual self; old tee under a denim jacket, jeans that seem made entirely of holes and paint splatter.

Mikey clears his throat. “What are you supposed to be?” he asks.

Gerard startles, turning around. “A zombie victim.” He shrugs. “Didn’t exactly have time to—”

The rest of the sentence gets bitten to shreds as Gerard’s mouth snaps shut with an almost audible sound when he sees what Mikey is wearing. The air between them is suddenly heavy and thick with tension.

Mikey swallows. He’s blushing and there’s nothing he can do about it. “Do you... Do you like it?”

“_Yes_,” Gerard says, taking a step closer until he’s right in Mikey’s personal space. “I like it.” His voice is tight, eyes burning holes into Mikey’s skin and for the first time ever he can’t tell what Gerard is feeling, whether he’s angry or something else entirely.

For a heartbeat or two Mikey thinks _this is it, this is it,_ but then Gerard simply reaches around him and snatches the car keys from the table.

Guess they’re going to Frank’s party after all.

  
***

  
Gerard had not been exaggerating about the number of people eager to celebrate Frank’s birthday or simply to have a good excuse for a party. They have to park two blocks away, because the street outside Frank and Bob’s flat is littered with vehicles in various states of repair. Frank has a lot of friends, but apparently none of them drive anything worth stealing.

Every other person walking past is wearing a fancy costume and Mikey sighs a little in relief. It’s not that he cares what people think, but he’s nervous enough about what’s going on in Gerard’s head and doesn’t need to worry about the potential of being beaten up between the car and the party. He grabs for the door handle, but Gerard reaches over and stops him.

“Wait,” he says.

Mikey blinks, confused. “What is it?”

“Just... Just, wait a minute, okay?” Gerard stares at him for a few more seconds. Then he sort of nods to himself and gets out.

Before Mikey can react, Gerard is on the other side of the car, opening Mikey’s door for him. Gerard holds his hand out expectantly.

It’s Mikey’s turn to stare. Gerard shifts from foot to foot but doesn’t back down, his arm still extended, expression stubborn.

“...It’s still just _me_, you know,” Mikey says. “You don’t have to—” He waves a hand between them illustratively.

“I _know_,” Gerard says. “But I _want to_.”

Well. That’s. Mikey looks up, and finds Gerard’s eyes trained on his face, not his boots or the dress or the several inches of fishnet-covered skin in between, his _face_.

Mikey takes Gerard’s arm and allows himself to be helped out of the car. They walk down the street side by side, Gerard’s hand a light, steadying presence at the small of Mikey’s back. Around them the Halloween evening deepens into twilight, and somewhere between their old beat-up Ford Escort and Frank’s party, Mikey falls in love with his brother all over again.

***

  
They climb up three flights of stairs because there’s no way in hell Mikey is willing to risk the ancient lift, high heels or not. The noise is spectacular and the only reason no one has called the cops is because Frank has apparently invited the entire building in addition to his other friends. The party spills out into the hallway, people standing around with drinks and smokes.

Mikey glances at Gerard, concerned. Alcohol usually makes him uneasy and self-conscious, but this time it’s as if Gerard isn’t even seeing the people drinking around them. His hand is still hovering protectively behind Mikey’s back, almost but not quite wrapped around his waist.

“Gee! You made it!” The shout comes from somewhere inside the apartment. There’s a blur of colour (mostly orange and black) and then Frank comes barrelling through the crowd. He launches himself at Gerard, clambering up him like a tiny monkey on acid and making squealing noises to match.

If Mikey didn’t know how completely Bob’s bitch Frank was, he would be jealous. Instead he’s simply amused.

“Happy birthday, Frank,” Gerard says, his voice muffled. “Now get down you freaky fucker.”

Frank lets out a high-pitched laugh and slides to his feet. “Like you’re one to talk. This is the first time in months I’ve seen you outside gigs or practice. Won’t hurt you to socialise a little, you know.”

Frank turns to Mikey with an appreciative leer in place. “And yet somehow you’ve managed to find a _smoking _date. _Hello _there, let me introduce—” His eyes finally reach Mikey’s face, first narrowing, then widening in genuine shock. “Holy shit! _Mikey?_”

It’s kind of flattering and a lot funny to watch Frank’s eyes bug out of his head as he takes in Mikey’s outfit.

“That’s...” Frank wolf-whistles, grinning widely. “Always knew you were a hot piece of ass, MikeyWay, but this is something else.”

“Such eloquence.” Mikey bats his eyelashes to soften the sarcasm and Frank laughs gleefully.

“I don’t think he looks that different,” Gerard mutters.

“_Ooooooh!_ Mikey, I think he just insulted your masculinity,” Frank cackles, but Mikey knows that’s not what Gerard meant at all.

  
***

  
Frank’s party is kind of insane, yet oddly affable. There are no fights, no drugs (weed doesn’t count, not when you’re friends with Joe and Jon), and no public sex (what happens behind closed doors is another matter entirely, and even though most interesting combinations of people keep periodically disappearing with furtive glances, Mikey is not exactly in any position to judge).

Mikey’s outfit earns him a lot of comments and a few casual pats on the ass he’s happy Gerard doesn’t seem to notice. No one gives him grief about it or looks at him sideways. Mikey figures it’s partly because the people in their social circle are a pretty easy-going lot and partly because his dress-and-boots-combo is hardly the most outrageous outfit there. In one corner, looking like a cross between fey prince and Dickensian gentleman, Ryan Ross is talking to a tall guy with a snake-skin pimp hat. Mikey spies the cobra-headed walking stick, recognising its owner just as Gabe places a decidedly friendly hand on Ryan’s hip.

Mikey nudges Gerard subtly, nodding in their direction. “I just don’t know which one I should try and rescue. It’s like watching a snake and a very sparkly mongoose.”

Gerard sniggers. “There’s probably a pool going on already, in case you want to place bets on who eats whom.”

“..._Eeeewww._” Mikey shudders.

They make a strategic retreat to the kitchen.

  
***

  
Frank’s kitchen is tiny. In it there are approximately five hundred bottles of soda, beer, spirits and (inexplicably) ketchup, and one depressed-looking Pete Wentz dressed in a furry teddy bear suit.

Gerard takes one look at the scene before turning right around. “All yours,” he says tightly and disappears back into the crowd.

Mikey is conflicted. On one hand, Pete is a friend no matter how annoying and tiring he can be. On the other, Gerard still seems to be working under the assumption that Pete and Mikey’s “office romance” (which, seriously, _one summer, three_ years ago, and so not going there anymore) is not a thing of the past.

A few weeks ago Mikey would have been thrilled by such a blatant display of jealousy but not tonight.

“I’m heartbroken, MikeyWay,” Pete sighs from where he’s slumped over the table. “_Heartbroken_.”

Mikey rolls his eyes and sits down. “Uh-huh,” he says, as noncommittally as possible.

Pete lifts his head, blinking slowly in Mikey’s direction. “Oh hey,” he says dully. “You look hot.”

“Thanks.” Mikey tries to pull the hem of his dress down over the line of his stockings for a while before he gives up. One, it’s impossible, and two, Pete’s comment lacks all its usual lechery. Mikey is pretty sure that Pete wouldn’t care one way or the other even if he were to strip naked and offer himself up on a silver platter. There can be only one explanation for this.

“Where’s Patrick?” Mikey asks.

Pete’s face crumbles. “He wouldn’t come with me.”

“Why not?”

“I guess he didn’t like the costume I got him.” Pete looks both miserable and puzzled.

Mikey is not sure he actually _wants _to know but... “And, um, what did you get him?”

“This. He got me... _This_.”

Mikey and Pete whip their heads around in unison. Patrick is standing in the doorway wearing the most hideous bunny costume in existence and an expression torn somewhere between murder and helpless love.

“Look what I found.” Gerard’s head bobs up behind Patrick’s shoulder. He looks very pleased with himself and Mikey feels his face stretch into an unaccustomed grin.

“_Patrick!_” Pete gasps, getting to his feet. “You came! _And _you’re wearing the costume.”

“Well yeah.” Patrick shuffles his giant rabbit feet and awkwardly puts the headpiece onto the floor. “It seemed important to you.”

“You look... I... _Patrick_.” Pete stomps over, the teddy bear suit making every movement clumsy and exaggerated. He still has the paw mittens on when he grasps Patrick by the shoulders, his intentions clear as a day.

Gerard is making frantic _get out, get out while you can! _motions behind them and Mikey obeys hastily, slipping out of the kitchen just as the delicately pink bunny chest bumps against the brown fur of Pete’s costume. Mikey loves the guy, he really does, but he sure as fuck doesn’t want to witness the consummation of his furrie fantasies.

  
***

  
Something changes after that, after Gerard pulls Mikey out of the kitchen and further into the apartment. Mikey lets himself be led, his wrist caught in the tight circle of Gerard’s fingers. Gerard doesn’t let go until they’re safely tucked in the corner of the living room.

“People are looking at you,” Gerard says. His voice is oddly flat.

“What?” Mikey is confused, the uncomplicated amusement from just moments ago dissolving into something darker. He can’t see much of the room behind Gerard’s back, he can’t even see Gerard properly, his face angled away.

“People are _looking_. At _you_,” Gerard repeats, finally turning around. “I don’t like it.” His eyes are hard and hungry, pinning Mikey to the wall as effectively as if Gerard had actually pushed him against it.

Mikey inhales sharply, the full meaning of Gerard’s confession making his knees buckle.

The tension between them – levelled out to a background hum during the general hubbub of the party – ratchets back up. The look on Gerard’s face is the same it was when Mikey walked out of his room earlier this evening, the same one he had that first time Mikey came home wearing a girl’s shirt and candy pink lipstick.

“We could go,” Mikey suggests, his voice cracking, mouth suddenly very dry. “Back home, I mean. No one looking there, just you.”

They lock eyes, caught in the moment for long seconds, time stretching like taffy, the noise of the party fading away. This is it, Mikey knows, the precipice before the fall, the last chance to back down, the fucking _crossroads_.

In the end, it’s Gerard who takes the final step for both of them.

“Let’s go,” he says.

They walk out, the night air chilly against Mikey’s heated skin, Gerard’s hand like an iron band around his arm.

  
***

  
The drive home is silent. The roads are still busy and Gerard is hunched over the wheel in single-minded concentration. Mikey doesn’t know what to say so he doesn’t say anything, sitting on his hands just to keep still.

They get back just as the numbers on the car clock flick to zero. _New day_, Mikey thinks. How fitting. He knows now to remain seated and wait for Gerard to round the car and open the door for him.

Inside, the house is quiet and full of memories. For lack of any other instruction, Mikey walks into the kitchen out of habit. He’s unsure of what’ll happen next, though he knows that something _will_.

The room is dark, the only light coming from the hallway and the streetlamp peeking through the window blinds. Gerard’s face is painted with shadows, his eyes black, hands gripping the doorway, blocking the only exit. There is something predatory in the angles of his body, contained violence kept carefully in check and Mikey has never seen his brother like this, not off-stage. He always assumed Gerard’s stage-persona was just that – something fake and temporary that Gerard would put on and take off like a costume – but there is nothing artificial about this.

It’s as real, as much a part of Gerard as Mikey’s dress and fuck-me boots are a part of him.

Mikey takes a deep, shaky breath, standing ramrod-straight in the middle of the room. He feels trapped, vulnerable, heart tripping frantically in his chest. He takes a step toward Gerard, then another, heels clipping sharply on the cheap linoleum, until he’s right in front of him.

“Mikey,” Gerard says and it’s a _warning_. He’s holding himself very still, fingers curled tight around the edges of the doorway like he’s afraid of what happens if he lets go.

Mikey is not afraid. He thinks maybe he should be.

Mikey lifts a hand and Gerard tenses further. But Mikey is not reaching for Gerard. Instead he brings his hand up to his own waist, lets it rest there, palm flat and heavy against his stomach.

Gerard’s eyes drop instantly, following the movement. He doesn’t say anything and Mikey doesn’t either. The silence is thick and charged, iron-sweet electricity buzzing at the base of his spine, the back of his teeth.

Mikey tilts his hips into his own touch, boots scratching against the floor as he’s forced to widen his stance. His hand eases downwards, thumbnail following the pattern of the fabric. The dress is short enough for his fingers to skim the edges, brushing over the sheer material of his stockings. There’s delicate black lace just out of sight and Mikey lets his forefinger dip under the hem, sighing audibly at the sensation.

“_Mikey_,” Gerard says again, his voice gruff. There’s no mistaking the look on his face, the intense burn of his eyes.

Mikey feels his erection shift against the silk of his panties and can’t help the little gasp and involuntary stutter of his hips. He’s been half-hard since Gerard grabbed his arm at the party and manhandled him into the car, probably earlier.

“I wore these for you,” he says, pulling the dress up just enough to reveal the barest glimpse of skin and stocking holders. His hand travels slowly upwards, over the slim line of his thigh, sharp jut of hip, waist, chest, fingers deliberately dragging over the nipple.

“The dress too, Gerard. Do you like it? Do you want—?” His wandering fingers reach his own face, fluttering like moths over the powdered cheeks, past the waxy thickness of lipstick. Mikey doesn’t think or hesitate, just pushes two of his fingers right into his mouth, all the way up to the second knuckle, and _sucks_, moaning obscenely around them.

Gerard snaps, uncoiling from the doorway with a speed that’s startling. “_Fuck!_ You fucking little _tease_.” He fists Mikey’s hair, yanking his head close until he can feel Gerard’s breath, hot against his skin.

Mikey stumbles, eyes watering from the sudden sting. His hands reach out automatically, curling around Gerard’s arms and holding on, trying to find his balance.

But Gerard doesn’t give him the opportunity. He pushes Mikey backwards, crowding him against the kitchen table until the hard edge is pressing into the back of his thighs. Mikey goes with it, hitching himself up while Gerard shoves his legs apart and presses between them, one hand still in Mikey’s hair, the other gripping his knee.

“I’m _done_,” he says, teeth grazing Mikey’s earlobe. “You’re going to have to stop this, because I _won’t_. Not anymore.”

Mikey moans in response. “Gee, Gee, I want to. I _want_.” He turns his head, lips dragging wetly over his brother’s jawline. “Please,” he begs, legs wrapping around Gerard’s waist, pulling them flush against each other. “_Please_.”

Gerard swears, nails digging painfully into Mikey’s scalp as he brings their mouths together.

The kiss is sharp like broken glass and it cuts deep, bringing blood forth in a hot rush of desire. Mikey groans into his brother’s mouth, clutching at his jacket for support. Despite being as sure as he can, despite all the bravado, there’s still a part of him that expects the world to come crashing down around them just from the sheer enormity of what they’re doing.

Nothing happens. Over the thumping of his own heart Mikey can hear the kitchen clock ticking steadily; time moving forward at an uninterrupted pace.

Then Gerard’s teeth nip the soft inside of his lip and Mikey jerks like he’s been shot, fingers scrabbling for purchase across Gerard’s shoulders. The sounds he’s making are animal-high and needy.

“Pushy, aren’t you?” Gerard asks, straightening up. He wipes a sleeve across his face, looking at Mikey in the eye.

For a while Mikey thinks it’s blood smeared black around his brother’s mouth and the idea makes the bottom of his stomach drop clean away. But no, it’s just lipstick. At least this time.

“Fuck, stay _still_,” Gerard says, voice harsh.

Mikey freezes, elbows digging into the unyielding wood of the table.

Gerard’s eyes are travelling up and down his prone form; from the slutty boots to the dress riding high on his hips, to the smudged mascara and the feathered tips of his hair.

Mikey feels exposed yes, but more than anything he feels _pretty _– something that hasn’t happened too often during his life; years of awkward adolescence morphing into awkward adulthood, the angles of his body never filling out like he hoped they would.

But now... Now Mikey wants to _preen_, to arch his body under the slow heat of his brother’s gaze, to twist and writhe and show him all the imperfect parts, all the broken pieces hiding under the clothes and the make-up. Because Mikey knows Gerard has already seen him at his worst and loves him anyway.

“God, you’re beautiful.” Gerard says, his hand skimming over the long line of Mikey’s body.

And Mikey does move then, even though Gerard told him not to, even though his arms protest and his boots kick clumsily against the table legs, but it’s okay because Gerard is already there, pulling him up, fingers tight around his hips.

The second kiss is no less dirty than the first. Their hips press together, the rough denim of Gerard’s jeans scraping against the bare skin of Mikey’s inner thighs. They’re both hard. Mikey can feel the cold metal of buttons through the silk and he hisses, then moans like a cheap slut, shameless and wanton.

The sound makes Gerard growl. His hand cups Mikey’s neck, thumb pushing under the choker, unerringly coming to rest over his pulse point. The feel of it makes Mikey’s mouth go slack and pliant. He pants around the light pressure, can feel himself starting to drool a little.

“Fuck, _Mikey_.” Gerard swipes a thumb over Mikey’s lips, his eyes black. “Do you have any idea what seeing you like this makes me want to _do?_”

“Tell me,” Mikey says. “_Please_. I want to—”

“Your _mouth_,” Gerard interrupts. “Fuck, I’ve been thinking about how it would look wrapped around my dick. You on your knees with your pretty painted eyes looking up at me and those whore red lips stretched wide and I—”

He doesn’t get any farther than that before Mikey flicks his tongue over Gerard’s thumb, licking down and around all the way to the fleshy inside of his palm.

Gerard curses sharply and then he pushes three fingers into Mikey’s mouth all at once. They slide in between his lips, rough and a little mean, trapping his tongue and making him gag. Mikey tips his head back, letting Gerard fuck his mouth as he pleases.

“Good girl,” Gerard says. “_Good girl._”

Mikey moans louder.

Gerard pulls out, wiping his fingers all over Mikey’s face and neck, smearing spit and lipstick everywhere.

Mikey’s mouth feels empty and used. He opens his eyes just in time to see Gerard drop to his knees. His hand pushes Mikey’s dress rest of the way up, revealing stockings and garter belt, the black lace stark against pale skin.

“God, _look at you_.” Gerard shoves Mikey’s legs apart, nails digging painfully into the soft flesh of his thighs.

Mikey looks. His fishnets are ripped where Gerard’s fingers grip him hard, the dress pooling around his waist, discarded like good intentions. His cock is trapped inside flimsy girl panties, straining against the damp silk obscenely.

He looks wrecked, needy, _slutty_. He looks exactly like he feels.

Mikey hooks his knees over his brother’s shoulders and for moment Gerard just rubs his cheek against the slick material of the boot, his mouth open and eyes at half-mast. Before Mikey has a chance to process the implications of _that_, Gerard sinks his teeth into the vulnerable inside of Mikey’s thigh.

The pain is red hot and sharp and it doesn’t let go. Mikey keens and thrashes against the table, riding it out. Gerard bites deep and hard, tongue flicking over the forming bruise. It’s like a wave that builds and builds and by the time Gerard eases off Mikey is sobbing.

“_Shh, shh,_” Gerard whispers, his mouth trailing up Mikey’s thigh, along the edge of his stockings. His hands bracket Mikey’s hips like a vice, breath hot against the damp cloth of his panties. “Don’t come yet,” he says, mouthing the length of Mikey’s erection through them.

Mikey doesn’t, but it’s a near thing. He bucks and writhes, futilely trying to lift his hips off the table, to get closer to the wet heat of Gerard’s mouth.

“_Please, please_. God, please, _let me_.” Mikey doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore, his mouth making promises he wants Gerard to force him to keep.

“Fuck, _Mikey_.” Gerard is climbing to his feet unsteadily, one hand still wrapped around Mikey’s hip, the other thumbing open the buttons of his own jeans.

Fuck. Yes. Mikey wants that, to feel Gerard inside him, to be face-down on the bed, table, floor, Gerard behind him, spreading him open.

“Next time, little brother. _Next time_.”

Mikey hadn’t realised he’d said it out loud but the promise of a _next time_ is enough to make him reach for Gerard’s face.

The kiss is sloppy and frantic. Between their bodies Gerard’s hands are busily undoing his jeans, the sudden heat of his naked cock against Mikey’s own is shocking.

Gerard pulls back just enough to see. “Fuck, you’re a dirty little girl, aren’t you?” he asks, voice rough. “Gonna come in your little girl panties for me, Mikes?” He drags his cock along the wet silk, slow and deliberate, the friction just on the right side of painful.

“Gonna...” Gerard pants against the side of Mikey’s mouth, rubbing himself against the crease of his thigh, “...gonna make a mess?”

Mikey’s hips snap clean off the table, his back arching like a bow and his mouth stretched wide. The pleasure is almost too much to bear. He comes in sharp bursts, inside his panties like a cheap slut, just like Gerard said he would.

“Fuck, fuck.” Gerard stands up, eyes flickering between Mikey’s face and the ruined front of his underwear. Two strokes of his own fist and Gerard comes too, all over Mikey; his dress, his fishnets, his already wet panties. Mikey opens his mouth, hoping to catch some of it, and thinks _next time_ again.

  
***

  
It takes a while for his senses to return to normal functioning, but after a minute or two, Mikey can hear the quiet _tick-tick_ of the clock, soft under the thumping of his own heart and the combined sound of their harsh breathing.

Gerard is a dead weight, slumped over him bonelessly. It feels good but Mikey would also like to regain the use of his lower extremities sometime this century.

“Get off.” He pokes Gerard on the shoulder. “You’re heavy, get off.”

“Ithoahsdid,” Gerard mumbles, face buried against the crook of Mikey’s neck.

“What?”

“I thought I just did,” he says, finally moving enough to allow Mikey to sit up.

“Oh haha, very funny.” Mikey busies himself with getting to his feet, carefully avoiding his brother’s face. For all his planning and hoping, he never thought about _after_, what would happen once the haze of sex cleared and the make-up and pretty clothes came off.

“Hey. Mikey, hey. Look at me. Please?” Gerard’s hand wraps around his wrist, tugging him closer. “I meant what I said.”

Mikey leans against him, body too conditioned to seek comfort in his brother’s arms even though his mind is still anxiously turning around in circles. “I don’t know, Gee. You said a lot of things there, not many that bear repeating in polite company...” Mikey is pretty sure his attempt of a joke is falling flat but it’s the best he can do at the moment.

“Well I meant all of them,” Gerard huffs irritably. His fingers nudge Mikey’s head up until he’s forced to look Gerard in the eye. “But especially the part about you being... uh, beautiful.”

Mikey gets the impression that Gerard would duck his head then if he wasn’t too busy proving a point.

“_This_,” Gerard makes a sweeping gesture at Mikey’s outfit, “the dress or the lipstick or whatever the hell _else _you’re wearing – is _not_ what this is about.”

“But...” Mikey says, even though the voice inside his head is screaming at him to shut the fuck up and take what is given.

“But what?” Gerard asks.

“But you never before...” Mikey doesn’t quite know how to finish that sentence so he just nods toward the table.

“I _did_. Or wanted to.” Gerard runs a hand through his hair, then grimaces with disgust when he realises it’s now smeared with come.

Mikey sniggers a little despite himself.

“Believe me. I just didn’t know if... But then you. With the. And I couldn’t...”

Mikey feels a slow smile starting to spread across his face. “Are you saying you couldn’t resist my _feminine wiles?_” he asks? “Were you powerless against my _girlish charm?_”

“Shut up, _God!_” Gerard looks embarrassed but he’s also grinning from ear to ear, his arm snaking around Mikey’s waist. “See how you like it when _I_ wear a dress.”

“Ooooh, _kinky!_” Mikey laughs and if his voice comes out more breathless than mocking then Gerard doesn’t seem to mind.

“You bet,” he says and pulls Mikey in for a kiss.

 


End file.
